


In Merciful Hands

by sphinx01



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, M/M, Medical Kink, Oral Sex, Role-Playing Game, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:53:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sphinx01/pseuds/sphinx01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jazz and Ratchet indulge in a little playtime in the med bay...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a multiple first time for me. It's my first PWP in the sense that the sex is not part of an underlying plot, but is there simply for its own sake. It's my first sticky fic, and it's also the first time I've written a medical kink. I'd therefore really like your honest opinion. Just fire away, folks! ;-)  
> Many thanks go to my beta readers iratepirate and anondecepticon.  
> Disclaimer: I do not own The Transformers, and I do not make any money with this.

** In Merciful Hands **

**Part 1**

**xxx  
**

“You’re late,” Ratchet snapped. Jazz ducked his head at the harsh greeting.

“Sorry, Doc,” he murmured as the med bay doors hissed shut behind him, doing his best to look and sound as sheepish as possible. He received a dirty look for his trouble.

“I’m sick and tired of having to chase you down for this,” Ratchet continued as he punched his access code into the panel next to the entrance, sealing it off. “This maintenance is necessary, and it will be done. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Doc,” Jazz whispered.

With a scowl and more force than necessary, the CMO drew back one of the silicone curtains that separated the small, private examination niches from the main room. He waited several astroseconds, glaring pointedly at his patient, then huffed in irritation when Jazz didn’t move. “Do you need an invitation?”

Many vorns of Special Operations experience had left Jazz with perfect control over his features, but he still had to fight hard to keep a grin off his faceplates. He tiptoed past the enraged medic, concentrating on looking as anxious and distressed as a turbofox in a trap.

The niche, once Ratchet drew the curtain shut, was a tiny, confined space with only the sparest equipment. To one side there was a narrow work bench with an integrated computer terminal, and Jazz’ spark gave a small pulse at the sight of all the shiny instruments Ratchet had arranged there so neatly. But what really drew his attention was the examination chair with the metal stirrups on the opposing side. A soft smile curved his lips as he savored the first, gentle tingle of warmth shivering along the seams of his interface panel.

Ratchet had taken a seat on the low swivel stool in front of the work bench, giving his equipment a final check. This was the moment where, as a good patient, Jazz should be climbing into the chair to get ready for his examination.

Instead, he remained where he was, standing in the far corner of the tiny room as he knew he was expected to. And Ratchet waited just the perfect amount of time before he turned to favor his charge with a stern glare. Jazz faked a nervous twitch, and to any casual bystander, the look on his faceplates had to be one of pure, pleading misery. Ratchet sighed.

“This is not an execution, Jazz,” he said with surprising kindness, getting up to close the small distance between them. “We’ve done this before, haven’t we?”

A pleasant shudder ran through Jazz’ frame when, before he could answer, the comforting touch of Ratchet’s hand on his arm turned into a tantalizing caress. The medic’s fingers slipped up the curve of his shoulder strut, giving it a gentle squeeze, then traced the line of a transformation seam that ran down his chest plates, stopping only to draw slow little circles around the red Autobot insignia. “Don’t worry,” he crooned. “It will be over in no time at all.”

Again, Jazz had to fight the urge to grin at the ill-disguised, playful mischief twinkling in Ratchet’s optics. The medic’s hand brushed one of his headlights and then slid under what would be Jazz’ bumper in his alt mode, easily locating one of his most receptive hot spots. Jazz’ intakes hitched at the touch, and his high-performance engine gave an involuntary rev as his energy field surged and extended, pushing against Ratchet’s. “Whatever you say, Doc,” he breathed.

With a smile, Ratchet offered his hand to help him climb into the examination chair.

All flirting notwithstanding, the few moments of fumbling it took to properly settle in never quite lost their awkwardness, and Jazz was grateful that Ratchet turned his back on him and politely pretended to be concerned with his instruments once more. Thus, he could take the time he needed to shift and wriggle into a reasonably comfortable position and to get his feet up into the stirrups. His hands settled onto the armrests as he let his head sink back, cycling a slow, soft sigh to release the tension from his hydraulics.

The quiet sound was Ratchet’s cue to turn on his stool, and this time he made no effort to hide his smirk. He leaned back against the work bench, indulging in a nice, long look.

Had this been a regular maintenance job, Jazz would probably have told him to get the twist out of his circuits. But Pit, how could he not enjoy this, lying on his back, subjected to Ratchet’s every wish and whim, legs forced open and interface panels laid bare for the world to see... And to know that he actually was being watched only increased the erotic appeal of the situation. He could _feel_ Ratchet’s gaze travel up and down his body, following the smooth curves and angles of his chassis only to settle on his lower half, caressing the small panels lying nestled between his thighs. An automatic message popped up on his HUD, and he had to consciously override his processor’s command to let both covers slide open.

No sense in spoiling the fun.

It took a visible effort for Ratchet to tear his optics away from his patient. “Well,” he commented briskly. “Let’s get started, shall we?” He pushed his stool forward to bring himself into position, and Jazz eagerly craned his neck cables for a better view. The sight of Ratchet’s broad shoulder struts and proud, red chevron framed by the smooth triangle of his own thighs was simply too delicious to miss.

From the tray on his work bench, Ratchet selected a small speculum and a syringe containing a clear, viscous fluid. Jazz stared in fascination as the medic squeezed a generous amount of the liquid onto the metal instrument and then started to oh so slowly spread it with his free hand.

The sheer suggestiveness of the act was enough to make Jazz’ cooling fans jump into action, filling the room with a soft hum. Behind its cover, he could feel his valve flex and clench in anticipation, eager to be given proper attention. Ratchet glanced up as he bit back a low moan, and through the pleasurable haze that was beginning to settle upon him, that quick look abruptly reminded Jazz that he was supposed to play a role here.

With some difficulty, he managed to reduce the power feed to his optical sensors so his visor would appear dimmed and flickering. “I don’t like this part,” he said softly.

As good as the hot surge of Ratchet’s energy field felt, it wasn’t much help in respect of keeping up the act. Nor was the medic’s hand as it came to rest on Jazz’ thigh, gently kneading the smooth metal before starting to draw little circles onto its inside that steadily edged closer to his heating panels.

“Just relax,” Ratchet cooed, and Jazz shivered at the hint of static clouding his voice. “I’ll be gentle.”

Jazz groaned in honest relief as he finally gave in to his CPU’s demands. With a soft, rasping sound, his lower panel clicked open, revealing the delicate circuitry of his valve. The highly-tuned sensors immediately fired a surge of tactile input into his neural net at the sudden sensation of cool air against the hot surface, and even with his thighs spread like that, he could feel the warm wetness that had begun to pool inside. Ratchet’s little teasing session with the lube, he thought with a half-smile, had been purely for show. Where lubrication was concerned, the medic was not likely to encounter any difficulties down there.

Said medic was watching him with glowing optics, drawing a deep draught of air into his vents to catch the scent of Jazz’ fluids in his olfactory system. His fingers of his free hand slowly circled the sensitive rim of the saboteur’s valve, which reacted with a wishful twitch, before a gentle, well-practiced tug pulled the soft mesh folds apart just enough to ensure a smooth entry. “This may feel a bit cold,” Ratchet warned, but he didn’t give Jazz a chance to react. Before he could even activate his vocalizer, the medic was gently pushing the prepared device into his body.

The first few astroseconds of the cold metal invading his frame were always a bit unpleasant, but the discomfort faded quickly when Ratchet released his grip on the handle, allowing the instrument’s blades to slowly open. Jazz’ head fell back against the neck-rest, intakes laboring as his inner walls were stretched so nicely, gently yet persistently forced to accommodate the speculum’s full diameter. Holy slag, did that feel good... His engine gave a short rev, and his cooling fans cycled up another notch.

Judging from the heat that poured off Ratchet’s chassis, the medic wasn’t much better off. He reached for his tray again, selecting a medical-type swab with a long, slender stem.

“Gonna do a visual inspection first,” he explained, “and clean you up a bit.” His energy field pulsed and throbbed, washing over Jazz’ spread thighs in tingly waves that made them twitch eagerly. Jazz wondered briefly how his lover managed to keep his cooling fans in check, but all thought left him when Ratchet started to stroke that cotton swab along the edges of his valve.

The soft material tickled his sensors with barely-there, feather light touches, dipped inside for a moment and teasingly brushed against his anterior sensor node, never stopping in its movement. Jazz groaned, gripping the chair’s arms rests tighter, then sighed in pleasure when a slight shift in position allowed him to rock his hips up into the caresses. Ratchet’s faceplates, when he glanced down briefly, were concentration personified, and beneath all physical pleasure, Jazz felt a warm pulse of affection for the medic.

Then, out of nowhere, a strange thing happened.

Jazz’ concentration on the warm desire tingling through his circuits was interrupted by an odd, prickling sensation in his valve. It started deep within, but quickly spread outwards, followed by a feeling of intense heat. Alarmed, he sat up to see what was going on when, again out of thin air, a wave of such forceful, burning _lust_ crashed into his sensor grid it made his visor fritz. He gasped in shock, then yelped when a second surge immediately followed the first, tensing every strut and wire in his chassis to the point of near-pain. His cooling fans strove frantically to expel the excess heat, but to no avail, and the chair’s arm rests began to audibly creak under his grip. A deep shudder racked his whole body, and through the half-dozen warning messages on his HUD and the snow clouding his vision, he could dimly make out the incredibly satisfied smirk on his lover’s faceplates. Slowly, his dazed processor came to the only possible conclusion.

Ratchet, the Pit-spawned fragger, had spiked the lube.

With maddening calmness, the medic disposed of the swab while Jazz twitched and jerked in the throes of uncontrollable sensation. “Rat-chet!” he panted.

His lover made a big show of faking cluelessness. “Something wrong?”

Jazz groaned helplessly when a third wave hit him, accompanied by a fresh, hot surge of lubricant gushing into his valve. To the Pit with all role-playing, this was too much. He plunged a hand between his quivering thighs, feeling for his anterior node with the full intention of rubbing himself to a quick, much-needed climax.

The next thing he knew was a sharp pain in the back of his hand when Ratchet actually had the audacity to slap his fingers. "I'm doing an examination here, if you please!" he said sternly.

Jazz whined in desperation when the movement jarred the speculum inside him, which resulted in a short moment of sweet pleasure-pain, but that was pretty much everything he got for his trouble. What was more, the instrument prevented his valve from contracting the way it longed to, and another wail escaped him when he realized that he was denied even this smallest release.

As if in answer, a warm hand was placed on his leg, a touch clearly meant to soothe rather than arouse. “Shh,” Ratchet murmured. “Relax.”

Jazz put as much sarcasm into his answering grunt as possible. Yeah, right... that was what those Primus-damned medics always told you when you were trembling and convulsing on one of their torture racks - to fragging _relax_...

It was incredibly, insanely difficult, but somehow, the medic’s gentle touch actually helped, giving him something other to focus on than just the overwhelming urge to overload _right now_. Jazz took some moments to simply concentrate on his frame, recalibrating his systems and regulating his engine rating as best as he could. The heat between his legs was no longer coming in surges, but had settled into a steady, tingling glow that was beginning to feel strangely comfortable. What was more, with that warmth seeping slowly into the rest of his body, it became a lot easier to release the pressure from his hydraulics, and the sensation made him sigh softly.

“Good,” Ratchet whispered. “You’re fine. Just keep ventilating.”

Jazz let his head roll to the side to give his companion a languid smile.

“Hey, Doc,” he murmured. “Dunno if it’s important, but... y’know, things are startin’ to get quite hot down there...”

“Is that so?” The touch on his leg turned into an alluring caress, accompanied by a flare of Ratchet’s energy field. “Well, I should have a closer look, then, shouldn’t I?”

Jazz watched him contentedly through a half-dimmed visor until his spark gave a happy little jump when Ratchet maneuvered the colposcope into place. He breathed a soft groan as he offlined his visual sensors, feeling the warmth of the instrument's lights on his inner thigh plates, but the sensation paled against the mere thought of Ratchet sinking his gaze so deeply into his intimate circuitry. There was a series of clicking sounds as the medic adjusted the instrument’s settings, and for a split astrosecond, Jazz could have sworn that he actually felt Ratchet’s optics penetrate the tender, wet metal between his legs. His valve shuddered in longing, reacting with a renewed trickle of lubricant, and Jazz' engine revved as he wondered what _that_ might look like through the colposcope.

“Hm,” he heard Ratchet’s voice, “I don't see anything amiss. Perhaps you just need some cooling down.”

A gentle draught of air caressed his naked valve, and Jazz onlined his visor just in time to see Ratchet lean forward and slowly, sensuously drag his glossa over the wet opening.

Jazz' backstruts formed a graceful arch as he bucked into the caress in an attempt to get as close to the questing appendage as possible, releasing a long, deep groan of relief. Ratchet's arms wrapped around his thighs, hands stroking his hips, his sides, his abdominal plating; but his focus clearly was on his oral activities, if the way he buried his faceplates into Jazz’ interface array was anything to go by. His glossa traced tender little circles around the rim, then delved in deeply to taste the mixture of fluids there while seeking out the most receptive sensor nodes with stunning precision.

Somewhere along the way, Jazz became aware that he was gasping and moaning like a third-class pleasure drone, but somehow he couldn’t really bring himself to care. Instead, his hands came up to cradle his lover’s head, pressing him closer, silently urging him to go deeper... yes... please... more...

Ratchet changed tactics, his caresses now alternating between soft, teasing flicks against the anterior node and deep, probing strokes along the inner walls, and Jazz keened helplessly as he trembled under the sensual assault. Ratchet was _good_ at this, and his patience was beginning to wear thin.

“Ratch,” he panted over the roar of his cooling fans. “Ratchet... close...”

Thankfully, Ratchet seemed to understand that the game had turned serious for the moment. He reached up to take Jazz’ hand in a firm grasp and interlaced their fingers before he closed his lips around the anterior node and then started to suck, hard and fast and in a rhythm that somehow matched the frantic pulsing of Jazz’ spark.

Overload wrenched a staticky shout from Jazz’ vocalizer as he stiffened and jerked under the impact of the too-intense sensation. The charge in him surged and peaked and then rushed into his circuitry in a wave of painfully pleasurable heat, leaving him weak and shuddering in its wake while his HUD flashed red with warnings. His field lashed out on its own accord, searching blindly, but Ratchet was right there, meeting and enfolding it tenderly in his own. The medic hadn’t stopped in his ministrations so as to not interrupt Jazz’ pleasure, but the touches were becoming much gentler now and softened even further as the aftershocks began to slowly ebb away.

With the last tingles shivering through his exhausted systems, Jazz found himself coming to the hazy conclusion that it was probably a good thing his lover was holding him so tightly, one arm wrapped around his pelvic unit and their fingers still firmly tangled together. Otherwise, he might just have melted into a puddle of happily satisfied goo.

He onlined his visor to glance down as Ratchet pressed one last, tender kiss onto his valve before he lifted his face to lean his head against Jazz’ thigh. His lips curved into a smirk as he licked away some lingering traces of fluid, and Jazz answered with a lazy smile of his own while his thumb gently stroked Ratchet’s knuckles.

“You’re so good to me, Doc,” he breathed. Ratchet’s optics glowed brightly.

“Oh, don’t thank me yet,” he purred. “We’re only halfway through.”

_**To be continued...** _


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** I had a bet going on with myself that I would finish and post this long-dormant fic before this year is out, and guess what: I won ;-) Part 2 turned out a little different from what I originally planned, but then again, most of my stories do that. Happy New Year, everyone, and have fun reading!

**In Merciful Hands**

**Part 2**

**xxx**

They rested together for a while, giving Jazz’ cooling fans time to cycle down before Ratchet produced a clean chamois from his subspace and began to wipe the excess fluids off his charge’s array. Jazz stretched languidly as he relished in his lover’s gentle care, and relaxed even further when Ratchet deftly closed and withdrew the speculum. As pleasurable as the game was, it always felt good when all the tiny chucks and gears in there were allowed to return to their proper positions.

There was some quiet movement, and then the sensation of a warm, solid weight hovering above him. Onlining his visor, Jazz found Ratchet leaning over him, optics glowing and field alight with desire. “Still good?” he murmured.

Somehow, the rough static in his voice seemed to bypass Jazz’ audios and to go straight to his valve instead. He breathed a quiet sigh when the mesh lining tingled pleasantly, and Ratchet smiled down at him. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Jazz arched his back, deliberately showing off his curves as he pushed himself up into that shimmering field. “Not gonna argue, Doc,” he purred back, and delighted in the spark of mischievous amusement he felt from his lover in response. Ratchet’s index finger drew a soft, tantalizing line from Jazz’ chest plates across his headlights and down over his abdominal cabling.

“Good,” he breathed. “Because I still have a manual exam to do.”

Jazz groaned as heat flushed his lines and his calipers clenched reflexively. Pit, he just hoped that Ratchet didn’t plan on drawing things out for too long. Judging by the gentle pulsing of his valve, there was a second overload in store for him, and he preferably wanted that to happen with the medic’s spike snugly sheathed inside him.

He swallowed an impatient huff when Ratchet picked up the half-full syringe from the work bench to coat his fingers in another generous layer of the clear lubricant. An action performed simply for the sake of authenticity, no doubt. And still, admittedly, a rather delicious sight to behold.

Shifting back into position, Ratchet placed one hand flat on Jazz’ lower abdominal plates while he rested his middle and index finger against the soft rim of his valve. “You’ll feel some pressure,” he cautioned. While Jazz appreciated the well-intended warning, it was hardly necessary, for after their fooling around with the speculum, the smooth, gliding sensation of the medic’s fingers slipping into him registered as extremely satisfying on Jazz’ sensors.

And boy, did it feel good after all that stretching to finally have his calipers actually grab on to something. Previously untouched sensor nodes came to sweet life as Ratchet gently twisted and scissored his digits, letting his thumb ghost over the anterior node every now and then. Jazz wriggled a bit deeper into the chair so he could let his thighs fall further open while his frame heated and his fans sped up again. Ratchet took the hint and pushed deeper so his fingers scraped across a particularly sensitive cluster of sensors, triggering a full-body shiver. Jazz smiled to himself as he let his visor flicker offline again. Oh yes, this would be a nice, slow -

The charge washed through his lines with such abruptness it forced a startled squeak from his vocalizer. He jumped in surprise, but Ratchet’s hand on his middle steadied him. A deep, intense wave of pleasure ignited tiny blue sparks that danced along his seams while he shuddered and moaned his way through the unexpected climax.

Ratchet’s fingers kept moving, prolonging the feeling until the little flares of sensation became more annoying than pleasant. With a weak groan, Jazz reached down to swat at the annoying digits - not a very elegant form of communication, but it got his point across.

“Look at you,” Ratchet purred as he instantly complied with the unspoken request. “Such a good patient you are.”

Jazz wasn’t in any shape yet to do more that stare at him, panting heavily through wide open vents. What. The frag. Had _that_ been?!

He prided himself on some experience when it came to multiple overloads, but he’d never gone off a second time _that_ fast from just a little bit of fingering. Ratchet was either a far more skilled lover than Jazz recalled - or the slagger had invented the mother of all aphrodisiacs.

There were times when, even after thousands of vorns, Jazz’ Spec Ops programming still managed to surprise him. Why it chose now of all possible times to act up perplexed him no less than the unexpected overload itself, though that didn’t help the actual matter. Uncalled-for, a series of automatic defense protocols cycled online, raising firewalls and firing up combat subroutines.

It took him barely an astrosecond to manually override the execution sequence, but that time, short as it was, obviously sufficed for his lover to pick up on the brief discomfort. Ratchet’s field reached out immediately, arousal dampened by a sharp sting of contrition as he projected a string of _It’s fine_ and _You’re safe_ and _I’ve got you_. A message alert popped up on Jazz’ HUD, and when he accessed it, he found it containing the safe word they had agreed upon for sessions such as this.

A deep affection for his lover immediately replaced all self-anger. Poor, dear Ratchet, beating himself up as if Jazz’ saboteur programming was his fault. He placed his hand on the medic’s arm and stroked the smooth metal gently with his fingertips, waiting for his lover to look at him. When he did, Jazz opened his field frequencies wide, letting his emotion and reassurance seep in for Ratchet to feel it.

“No offense, Doc,” he murmured in that shy little patient voice his role dictated. “Don’t mean to tell you your job or anything, but... I think you may have missed something. I’m feeling a bit... off here, you know.”

The hand still lying on Jazz’ abdomen moved, slid away and took a firm hold of his right hip. Still glistening with residual lubricant, Ratchet’s other hand mirrored the action on the opposite side, while his optics, smoldering like dark blue embers, stared down into Jazz’ visor.

“Describe the symptoms,” he ordered, voice husky.

Jazz felt a surge of genuine relief wash over him. Despite two mind-blowing overloads, his original wish hadn’t been satisfied yet, and the momentary lapse in mood seemed to have given the matter a whole new urgency. He had to grip the chair’s armrests tightly to not reach out and stroke Ratchet’s chevron. “Feels hot,” he breathed instead. “And tingly. And _empty_.”

Ratchet’s gaze dropped down to linger between Jazz’ legs once more. One of his hands followed that path and gently circled the rim of the still exposed valve, which gave a wistful twitch at the touch. “I see,” he murmured. “Well, there is a special treatment for such cases, but I normally only prescribe that to my... _special_ patients.”

Had Jazz not felt the blazing, honest desire in the medic’s field, he might have felt a tiny bit offended at the casual tone the words were spoken in. Just where the heck did that mech take his self-control from? “Please, Doctor,” he whispered. “Won’t you try? I’ll be good, I promise.”

As if in answer, the soft, scratching sound of a retracting panel reached his audio receptors. He couldn’t resist a glance downward, and was rewarded with the sight of the medic’s spike standing at proud attention, colored in red and white like the rest of Ratchet and just the right size to fill a poor, empty valve. He felt a sly smile creeping across his faceplates, but Ratchet chose that moment to push himself to his feet and position himself snugly between Jazz’ thighs, close enough that he could feel the heat of that delicious spike against his own array. His fans kicked in again as he shivered in anticipation. Ratchet loomed above him, looking for all intents and purposes like a predator ready to feast on his prey. “Anything for my patients,” he rasped.

“Should I dampen my pain receptors, Doctor?” Jazz couldn’t help it; the chance was just too perfect to miss.

He grunted in surprise when Ratchet, in lieu of an answer, yanked him forward by the hips so his aft ended up balancing precariously on the chair’s edge. He flailed a bit, equilibrium sensors doing their best to counterbalance, but between Ratchet’s firm grip and solid chassis, he quickly found himself unable to go anywhere.

What was more, gravity now practically plastered their arrays together, causing the medic’s spike to rub across the mesh lining of Jazz’ valve, which clearly appreciated the stimulation quite a bit.

“Don’t worry,” Ratchet growled. “I shall strife to make this _agreeable_ for you.”

Jazz tried to laugh, but what came out of his vocalizer sounded more like a groan, because Ratchet was finally, _finally_ pushing into him, and Primus below, the slow, steady stretching felt amazing. His calipers took hold of the intruder on their own account, and Jazz could have sworn that his valve was trying to pull Ratchet in. Sensors lit up all along his channel like a string of tiny explosions, and for one dizzying moment, Jazz’ processor registered nothing except raw, primal pleasure.

Before he knew it, Ratchet was fully sheathed inside him, and the gentle pressure his spike’s head exerted on the ceiling node had Jazz squirming in place. “Good Lord,” he breathed.

Ratchet above him sagged forward, vents at full blast and field alight with an urgent desire and a not inconsiderable amount of smug pride. “That agreeable?” he panted.

A flash of impatient anger tugged at Jazz’ spark. He dug his fingers into the medic’s hip plates and yanked him forward with unmistakable force. “Frag it, Doc,” he growled. “Just do me already!”

“Greedy little thing, aren’t you,” Ratchet murmured, and snapped his hips forward.

It took no more than two or three thrusts for them to fall into a rhythm. Ratchet set a fairly moderate pace of firm but even thrusts, and Jazz groaned in appreciation. All the lubrication from their extensive foreplay now made their movements smooth and easy, like a piston sliding in and out of a well-oiled cylinder. He clamped his thighs around his lover’s hips as tight as his position would allow, reveling in the rough friction of metal on metal, while each stroke pushed a bit more charge into his lines until his circuits positively sang with it.

“Feels good, Doc,” he panted.

“Hmm,” Ratchet hummed back. “CMO concurs...” He leaned down, just as much as possible without losing his rhythm, as if compelled by an unspoken desire to be closer, and Jazz was seized by a sudden urge to wrap his arms around him, to pull him down and to swipe his glossa over that lustrous chevron... But such things were not in the script, at least not tonight, so he contented himself with fondling as much of Ratchet’s hips and thighs as he could reach, sighing and moaning his pleasure just as he knew his lover liked it.

Overload began to creep up on him from around the corner, and the thought chagrined him, for they had barely even started, for Pit’s sake! He flung a warning glyph at his lover, _close/slow down_ , but that only caused Ratchet to grab his hips tighter and to increase the speed of his thrusts. _Go ahead_ , his surging field sent back.

Jazz whined in half lust, half frustration, and that was pretty much everything he had time for.

It started as a warm tingle deep inside his valve, almost gentle this time, but quickly spread to turn into a full-body experience. It seemed to Jazz that even the smallest of his wires glowed with the releasing charge. Ratchet changed the angle of his thrusts, hitting the ceiling node dead on, and Jazz couldn’t have kept his vocalizer down if his spark had depended on it.

The pleasure crested, higher than he’d imagined possible after two overloads, but just as the sensation approached the threshold to pain it began to ebb, letting him down as gently as it had swept him up. Jazz sank back, shuddering and exhausted, while the residual charge grounded harmlessly into the mesh padding beneath him.

Senses reeling, it took him a moment to realize that his lover hadn’t stopped moving. Ratchet was pushing into him hard and fast now, groaning and stubbornly pursuing his own climax. Jazz made no attempt to stop him, only grabbed his hips a bit tighter and smiled gently to himself as he listened to the medic panting above him. A few more thrusts and a little supportive squeeze of his calipers, and then he sighed in contentment when Ratchet’s overload filled his valve with hot, liquid charge.

The medic was trembling from head to pede, his poor vents rattling with overuse. He fell forward, catching himself on the chair’s back with both hands. His plating radiated heat as if it came fresh from the smelter, but that didn’t stop Jazz from curling one hand around the back of his lover’s neck, and this time he did pull him down so that their foreheads came to rest against one another. “Hey, Doc,” he breathed. “Best. Treatment. Ever.”

A surge of pride lit up Ratchet’s field, even as his lips curved into one of those dry, little smiles of his. “All in the line of duty,” he murmured.

Jazz huffed a gentle laugh, allowing his hand to slide off when Ratchet straightened his back. His spike produced a soft, squelching noise when he pulled out, and Jazz grimaced a bit at the combined sensation of warmth and emptiness when his inner cords came into contact again. His lover dropped down heavily onto his swivel stool, engine whining and panel still wide open. Venting hard, he leaned back against the work bench for support, and offlined his optics.

They spent some kliks like this, each waiting for his vents to slow down and the overheating warnings to subside. Jazz idly traced the pattern of the ceiling tiles with his gaze, pondering if he should tease Ratchet about that little cobweb in the far corner while his calipers gradually stopped twitching and his core temperature dropped to a more normal level.

He turned his head at the sound of a drawer opening, and saw his lover take out a handful of disposable washrags. With some effort, he heaved his feet out of the stirrups, and winced none too gently when his hip joints made it very clear to him what they thought about the prolonged strain and the abrupt change of position. “Oh, stifle it,” he grumbled good-naturedly at Ratchet’s amused snort. The medic handed him one of the rags, and they both set to cleaning themselves in companionable silence.

After a few careful swipes, though, Jazz began to realize that the friction of the fabric against his mesh lining felt remarkably good - much better than it should after three overloads. He gritted his dentae when the washrag came into contact with his anterior node. Pit, that fragging lubricant couldn’t be _that_ effective, could it? But that didn’t stop his valve from warming up again, or his calipers from fluttering, and he could have sworn that the gentle tickling he felt inside was a fresh trickle of lubricant.

He finished his wipe-down as quickly as possible and slammed his panel shut. Unfortunately, the reverberations caused by this provoked an unexpected surge of sensation that traveled though his entire array. He stiffened instinctively, giving a sharp hiss.

Ratchet turned at the sound to look at him. “All right?”

Jazz pressed a hand between his thighs in a reflexive attempt to stifle the sensation. “Primus,” he gasped, only half in jest. “What have you done to me?”

The medic pondered him for a moment, then he stood and unsubspaced a data pad which he handed over to Jazz. “It’s a simple contact gel,” he explained. “These nanites specifically target and stimulate the pleasure nodes in a mech’s valve. They have a hard-coded life span of a breem at most, but... I may have failed to factor in the sensitivity of your sensor grid,” he added somewhat compunctiously.

Jazz scrolled through the pages, which contained detailed scientific information and undoubtedly were part of Ratchet’s personal lab journal. One page had a recording of live footage on it, showing the little mechanisms all hurry-scurry around and over each other like a swarm of tiny Earth insects. Sometimes a pair would run into each other, rotate around their own axis a few times as if to get their bearings, and then happily scuttle off into a new direction. Below the video was a sketch of a single nanite. The edges of its head armor - at least Jazz suspected this to be the front end - curved upward slightly, and above that curve were two tiny dots, probably sensor clusters for orientation. It looked a bit like a smiley face.

“Chirpy little critters,” Jazz remarked with a grin. Ratchet mumbled something under his breath.

“They probably need some more fine-tuning,” he grumbled.

Jazz cocked his head slightly in musing. Placing the blame on the mini-drones wasn’t fair, not when neither they nor their creator could stand a chance against common Spec Ops paranoia.

“Nah.” He shook his head as he committed the data pad’s information to his long-term memory core, flagging it with ‘harmless’ and ‘friendly’ for future reference before he pushed the device back into the medic’s hands. “They’re cool. I like them. Just gimme a little heads-up when you wanna play with them again, okay?”

Ratchet eyed him skeptically. Jazz beamed up at him and nudged his lover’s field playfully with his own, flickering his visor in an imitation of a wink.

Ratchet snorted in what was probably meant to sound like exasperation, but the unrest in his field vanished, and Jazz didn’t miss the crooked smile he tried to hide as he drew the silicone curtain aside and pointed to the door. “Get out of my med bay, you,” he ordered in his usual tone of command. “I advise a trip to the wash racks for the effects to wear off faster. If they don’t, ping me, and I can administer a sensor inhibitor. Got me?”

Jazz offered a brisk mock-salute. “Aye, aye, Doctor!” And then he dropped all pretenses and slung an arm around his startled lover’s neck, pulled him down and planted a hearty kiss right onto the medic’s glossy chevron.

Ratchet’s colorful swearing followed him as he danced out of the med bay, with a tingle in his valve and a warm glow in his spark.

_***Fin*** _


End file.
